The Price Of Darkness (47 page)

Winter laughed. He’d bought a second bottle of champagne, another forty quid that prompted Bazza to ask what the fuck they were celebrating.

‘Nothing, Baz. Just this.’ Winter had waved vaguely at the space between them. ‘You get to an age, you know that?’

‘Get to an age what, mush?’ He was genuinely interested. Winter could see it in his eyes.

‘An age when stuff starts sorting itself out. You’re way too young, Baz, you won’t have a clue what I’m talking about. And between you and me I’m far too pissed to explain. Except it’s nothing but good news. Drink to that?’

They had. And the second bottle, with a wave of Winter’s credit card, had given way to a third. Now, with the crowd at the bar beginning to thin, Bazza suggested an expedition to Misty Gallagher’s.

‘It’s two in the fucking morning, Baz.’

‘Doesn’t matter. She’s an owl, that woman. Be a laugh.’

He ordered a cab. It was waiting at the kerb within minutes. At the top of the island, where the motorway divides, Bazza told the cabbie to take the left fork.

‘Port Solent, mush.’ He gave him an address.

The cabbie laughed. ‘Lottery win, is it?’

‘Fuck off.’

The escort agency lay in the genteel clutter of £400,000 houses fringing the marina. Telling the cabbie to wait, Bazza steered Winter up the front path. The woman who opened the door recognised Mackenzie at once.

‘You should have phoned earlier, Baz. She’s busy right now.’

‘Doesn’t matter, love. It’s my mate here. We’re talking an all-nighter. What have you got left?’

‘Has he got a tongue in his head, your mate?’ The woman was eyeing Winter. ‘Only he can choose for himself, can’t he?’

Inside, Winter found his way to an over-furnished lounge. Three girls were sprawled in various states of undress, watching a DVD. It was unbearably hot.

Bazza nodded at them. ‘Freebie, mate. Call it a thank you. Help yourself.’

Winter took his time. All three girls ignored him. Finally, he chose a shapely blonde with dead eyes. She looked easily the oldest but even so could have been his daughter.

Bazza tapped her on the shoulder. ‘You got a name, love?’

‘Dawn.’ She was chewing gum.

‘Dawn, this is my mate Paul. I want you to be very nice to him. You listening to me?’

He disappeared from the room without waiting for an answer. Winter wanted more champagne. Badly. He nodded at the huge plasma screen.

‘Like him do you, love? Tom Cruise?’

‘It’s Kevin Costner.’

‘Costner then.’

‘I think he’s a wanker.’

‘Really? Ever see
Top Gun
?’

‘Top what?’

Bazza was back. He’d sorted a deal for the night and promised to have young Dawn back in time to get breakfast for her nipper.

‘Nipper?’ Winter was lost.

‘Little girl. Dawn’s mum stays over nights but she has to be at work by seven. Ain’t that right, Dawn?’

Dawn wasn’t paying attention. Bazza walked them all out to the cab. The three of them sat in the back with Dawn in the middle. Bazza had his arm round her. From time to time he nuzzled her ear and whispered something Winter couldn’t catch. After a while she started to scratch herself.

Winter leaned across, poked Bazza on the knee.

‘She’s a junkie,’ he said. ‘I can tell.’

‘No way, mush. I asked. It’s just a habit. The girl gets nervous. Mist’s got a fridge full of Moët. She’ll warm up a treat.’

Misty was in bed when they arrived. Winter caught sight of her in one of the upstairs windows, trying to check out the noise at the gate. Bazza paid off the cabbie and found the key to the front door. By the time they were inside, Misty was halfway downstairs. The sight of Winter, the state of the man, put a smile on her face.

‘Company, Mist. Paulie here’s played a blinder. Thought he deserved a little prezzie. Say hello, Dawn. Pretend you’re a fucking human being.’

Dawn ignored him. Misty, laughing now, took Winter by the hand.

‘Are we up for a foursome?’ she said to Mackenzie. ‘Or what?’

‘Piss off, Mist.’ He grinned back at her. ‘You’re the prezzie.’

TUESDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2006.
07.16

 

Winter surfaced to a cackle of laughter. For a moment he lay there, semi-conscious, neither asleep nor truly awake. The bed was enormous. It smelled musky with an edge of something sweet. The space beside him was still warm and when he summoned the courage to move his head on the pillow he found himself looking at the top of the bedside cabinet. Objects swum in and out of focus. Two empty champagne glasses. A paperback with a pink cover. An alarm radio. A bottle of body lotion. A packet of condoms. He blinked, told himself the thunder in his brain would go away, urged himself to resist the temptation to throw up, wondered where he’d find the nearest lavatory. There was an en suite through the half-open door beyond the wilderness of deep-pile carpet. He made it just in time.

Afterwards, forcing himself to his feet, he reached for the support of the big white basin. Then, very slowly, he soaped his face, rinsed his mouth and inspected his face in the mirror. Pale, jowly, thin on top, but still - somehow - intact. He held the gaze of this stranger for a moment or two, staring him out. The wink made him feel slightly better.

Misty was back in bed by the time he emerged from the shower. She’d poured herself a cup of coffee from the cafetière beside her and was leafing through a copy of the
Daily Mail.
Wrapped in her towelling robe, Winter eyed the front page. Police patrols had been stepped up around hundreds of mosques and churches after the Pope laid into Islam.

‘How was I, Mist?’ He was genuinely interested.

‘You were fine. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Just the once then?’

‘Yeah. I like a man who can do it in his sleep. Saves me making conversation.’

‘Are you up for another one?’ He loosened the knot at his waist. ‘Only I’m awake now.’

‘No, love.’ She finally emerged from behind the paper and patted the sheet beside her. ‘You want a coffee?’

Winter stepped out of the robe and slipped in beside her. She was naked under the sheet and her body was warm to his touch. She caught his hand as he found her nipple. She had paracetamol if he needed it and she’d make him breakfast later to put something solid in his stomach. Winter frowned. He’d prefer a fuck.

‘I know, love. But you can’t.’

‘Shame.’

‘Yeah. But then we all get one go in life, don’t we? Listen, Paul, you can have one look, just one, OK?’

She nodded at the sheet, an invitation for him to pull it back, but he shook his head.

‘Where’s Baz?’

‘Gone. Took his little friend home half an hour ago. She had coffee too. I’ve put the mug in bleach.’

‘Did she piss you off, turning up like that?’

‘Nothing pisses me off, Paul. Be around Bazza as long as me, and you get used to the odd surprise. It’s part of his charm. It’s also his way of telling me never to take him for granted. He’s subtler than you think, Bazza.’

‘That was
subtle
?’

‘This bit was.’ She glanced across, then kissed him on the lips. ‘He’s never done that before.’

‘Doesn’t that worry you?’

‘No. He knows I’m fond of you. It was a prezzie for me really.’

‘Then we
can
fuck.’

‘I said fond, Paul. Most of the men I’ve shagged in my life were animals. Why ruin a good friendship?’

Winter frowned. Maybe it was the hangover but he couldn’t follow the logic. Neither would his erection go away. He lay on his back, tenting the sheet, trying to think of something plausible, something that would coax Misty to put aside her reservations and straddle him.

‘Couple of minutes, Mist. That’s all it’d take.’

‘I know, love. I was there. That was me.’

‘Baz needn’t know.’

‘It’s not about Bazza. It’s about me.’

‘Shut your eyes then. If I’m that ugly.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Good word, Mist.’

She eyed him for a moment. ‘Have I upset you, love?’ She sounded genuinely concerned.

‘Yes.’

‘Truly?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK then.’ She exposed one breast before her hand slipped under the sheet. Winter felt the lightest scrape of her nails over the swell of his belly. Then a touch. Then another. Then a playful frolic underneath before her hand circled him for the briefest moment. ‘There,’ she said. ‘All done.’

Winter, still groaning, turned over. Seconds later, he was asleep.

 

Faraday was in Westbourne Road by eight o’clock. Uniforms had guarded the house all night and the SOC team had resumed work an hour ago. Beyond the fluttering loop of police
No Entry
tape, a line of metal treading plates disappeared into the house. The senior of the two Crime Scene Investigators was a Geordie called Danny McPhee. He’d been with the force for less than a year but Faraday had already worked with him on a number of jobs and been impressed. He had the knack, all too rare, of coaxing a bigger picture from the smallest forensic detail. He also had the courage to back his own judgement.

Faraday summoned him with a call on the mobile. After a longish wait he stepped into the sunshine, pulling back the hood on his one-piece suit and peeling off his thin latex gloves. When Faraday asked him how it was going, he shook his head.

‘It isn’t,’ he said. ‘Someone’s been through every inch of that place. Either that or they’ve got a thing about disinfectant. It’s spotless. Not a surface we can do anything with.’

They were moving through the house room by room, he said, prior to tearing the place apart. They were taping for hairs and fibres and looking for any evidence of blood or tissue that might have been carried back from Mallinder’s bedroom. Each of the articles awaiting a visit to the launderette had been bagged and tagged, along with the filter on the broken washing machine, and all these items were already back at base awaiting a range of separate tests. Seven pairs of size 10 shoes had also been seized and scrapings from the soles would be subject to microscopic analysis. Organic material - grains as tiny as pollen - might supply a match against samples retrieved from Mallinder’s front garden. On the other hand, he muttered with a shrug, all this painstaking work might take them absolutely nowhere.

‘So what’s your feeling?’

‘My guess is we’re stuffed. These people know what they’re doing, or at least one of them does. Look at it this way, boss. This bloke’s an ex-copper. He’s been there, done it. If he’s shot someone, he’s going to bin the clothes and probably his shoes before he gets anywhere near going home. Same with the weapon. He used some kind of bag, is that right? No shell casings at the scene? This guy’s anal. No way would he ever make it easy for us.’

‘You’re probably right. On the other hand, he probably took a fifteen-year-old along. So what does that tell us?’

‘Not my pay grade, boss. People do strange things. My oppo in there …’ he nodded towards the house ‘… said this guy was always a bit of a head case. Knew it all. Control freak. Stroppy too. Wanted a medal for turning up.’

‘He had a reputation,’ Faraday conceded. ‘And nobody was surprised when he jacked it in.’

‘Strange though, a bloke like that. You’d think the last thing he’d do was end up with a bunch of kids. Don’t they vet ex-coppers? Or do we get a free pass when it comes to all that risk-assessment bollocks?’

It was a good question, one that Faraday had asked Suttle to explore, and Faraday’s interest was quickened by McPhee’s description of the sheer number of photos around the house.

‘Kids,’ he said. ‘Often with Freeth. Kids making camp, kids dressed up as pirates, kids on some kind of assault course. They’re everywhere, even in the bedroom. Doesn’t this bloke have children of his own? Or is he dropping her some kind of hint?’

He shook his head, picking at a scab on the back of his hand. When Faraday asked him for some kind of time frame on the search, he said at least another two days.

‘Then there’s the garden, boss.’ He added. ‘Better make that three.’

 

Winter was up and dressed by mid-morning. Of Misty there was no sign. He prowled around the big house, padding from room to room, waiting for his brain to kick out of neutral and catch up with the rest of his body. He couldn’t remember a session as funny and satisfying as last night. As a welcome to this new life of his, he regarded it as extremely promising.

Back upstairs, in the creams and golds of Misty’s boudoir, he stepped across to the window. It was a glorious day - bright sunshine, not a whisper of wind. There were ducks on the water and a couple of guys, further out, paddling their canoes towards the Harbour mouth. Crime bought this view, he thought. Crime bought the swimming pool, the speedboat moored to the tiny wooden jetty, the Moët racked in the cooler downstairs. Crime paid for the girlie last night and all the girlies to come. Was Winter the least bit disturbed by any of that? Did he anticipate sleepless nights trying to figure out why the bad guys jetted off to Dubai while the rest of the human race put up with crap television, traffic gridlock and arsehole kids? He thought not.

Misty kept a pair of binoculars hanging by a strap beside the window. Winter scanned the Harbour, adjusting the focus, briefly keeping track of a black bird with a long neck as it arrowed low across the water. Then he tilted up slightly, slowly easing south along the distant shoreline. After the greens and yellows of Milton Common and the odd figure walking a dog, he recognised the grey bulk of the tower block which housed students from the university. Then, a nudge to the left, came the distinctive shape of Faraday’s place. Upstairs, the big windows sparkled in the sun. Outside, in the garden, someone was hanging up a line of washing. At this distance it was impossible to be sure but Winter thought it must be a woman. Did Faraday pay someone local to come in and do his domestics? Or had that solitary life of his taken a turn for the better?